


The Worthwhile Things

by ImpishTubist



Series: Winter's Child [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, M/M, Mild Language, OC Character Death, Paternal!Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the verge of starting a family with John, Sherlock makes a request of Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Worthwhile Things

**Author's Note:**

> Operates in the same universe and precedes [“Winter’s Child,”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/270281) though knowledge of one is not necessary to read the other.
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : I own nothing.
> 
>  **Beta:** Many thanks to [**Canon_is_Relative**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative), who has become my partner-in-crime in this 'verse. 
> 
> "There are only two worthwhile things to leave behind when we depart this world of ours: children and art."  
>                 -Stephen Sondheim, _Sunday in the Park with George_  
> 

“Christ, Sherlock,” Lestrade grunted he and John hauled the injured man up the stairs and into the flat, “how can you be expected to care for a child when you can hardly take care of yourself?”  
                 
“Your confidence in me is _staggering_ ,” Sherlock muttered, and then growled a curse as they jostled his injured ribs.  
                 
“ _You_ are the one who decided it would be a good idea to provoke the man with the knife!” Lestrade snapped at him. “Thanks for that, by the way, seeing as _I_ was the one he went after. And then you had to throw yourself off the back of a moving vehicle!”  
                 
“Seeing as my only other option was _death_ , I feel as though that was probably the correct thing to do.”  
                 
“Nonetheless - “  
                 
“Honestly, you two,” John cut in irritably as he shouldered open the door to Sherlock’s old room, “shut up.”  
                 
They mumbled apologies and fell silent, occupied now with the tricky task of maneuvering Sherlock onto the bed without causing him too much pain. It took some minutes to accomplish, but eventually they got Sherlock settled, flat on his back as it seemed to cause him the least amount of discomfort.  
                 
“I can watch after him for a bit,” Lestrade told John. “Go clean up; get some tea. We’ll be all right.”  
                 
“Are you sure?” John asked, though Lestrade could see that the idea of getting out of his filthy and blood-soaked clothing was appealing to him.

“I’ve seen _far_ worse with this one. Don’t worry. I’ll keep him from doing lasting damage to himself.”

“Thank you for speaking as though I’m not right here,” Sherlock groused from the bed.

“Might even be able to get him to sleep,” Lestrade went on, pointedly ignoring him. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve that I’ve learned over the years.”

He tried to keep his voice light, for John. In actuality, tonight’s incident - well, _incidents_ \- had been far closer a call than either of them would have liked, but someone had to buoy the three of them.  

“Right, well, if you think you can handle him...” John trailed off, gaze drifting to his injured partner. They shared a look that was unreadable to Lestrade, but after a moment John nodded and said, “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”

He left without another word, and Sherlock turned that inscrutable gaze on Lestrade.

“He’s angry with me.”

“Disappointed,” Lestrade corrected.

Sherlock frowned, because these shades of emotion often eluded him, but didn’t argue with the assessment. Lestrade fetched a chair from the corner and pulled it up next to Sherlock’s side of the bed. The room was in a state of flux, and wildly different from the last time Lestrade had stepped foot in it: the night after the bombing at the pool, five years before, when he had come with John to gather clothes for a hospital-bound Sherlock. Then, the room had blended with the character of the rest of the flat - a chaotic whirlwind with an organizational system that only made sense to Sherlock.

But it had served as storage and lab space when Sherlock moved upstairs with John, and now that was in the process of being packed up and bundled away. Boxes marked for disposal sat next to brand new ones that contained furniture and tiny clothes and toys gifted to the expectant parents months in advance of their child’s birth. It was a strange sight, indeed, to see Sherlock’s frankly alarming collection of specimens sitting alongside bright, multicolored boxes plastered with adverts of happy children. Muted brown and gray mixed with cheerful pastel - it made Lestrade’s head swim.

“Are you in much pain?” he asked, dragging his eyes away from the boxes intended for the baby. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. Sherlock was wide-awake, staring sullenly at the ceiling.

“No.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Some silence would be _marvelous_.”

“What, so you can brood?”

“I don’t _brood_.”

“Yes, you do. In fact, you’ve been doing so all day - even before this whole mess started.” Lestrade leaned forward, placing his feet on the floor and resting his forearms on his thighs. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. “C’mon, gimme.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to him before fixing on the ceiling. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, and then swiped the tip of his tongue across it. Lestrade knew that gesture all-too-well - it meant that Sherlock was about to actually tell him something, and that it would be unwise to push him just yet. Sherlock on the verge of revealing something was like an animal one came across in the woods - easily scared off by sudden movements and noises.

“m’gonna be a father,” Sherlock muttered finally. Lestrade snorted.

“Not if you keep treating yourself like this, you won’t. Do me a favor - make sure you’re around to actually _be_ a father. No more stupid stunts like what you pulled today.”

But Sherlock wasn’t listening. “A baby. With - drooling. And toes. And -” he waved his hand in the air, a bit unsteadily, “ _little clothes_.”

“Christ, how strong are these painkillers they have you on?” Lestrade muttered.

“Don't be daft, Lestrade, I haven't had any medication.”

“So this is just you, then, is it?” Lestrade said. “Look, you’ve got some time yet before the baby’s born. I wouldn’t start fretting now; it’ll do you no good. You two are going to be fine parents.”

“He,” Sherlock said suddenly. Lestrade blinked.

“He? The baby?”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “We just found out. Yesterday. The - _his_ mother called us after her doctor’s appointment.”

“Well - Sherlock, that’s wonderful.” Lestrade gave him a quick smile, remembering a time not all that long ago - though longer than he would have liked - when his wife had delivered similar news to him. “Has John decided on any names yet?”

Sherlock shot him a withering glare. “What makes you think John is the one choosing the name?”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Like hell John’s going to let a Holmes choose his child’s name. He knows the bloody archaic names that run in your family; he’s not an idiot.”

“My child, too,” Sherlock muttered, but didn’t argue. “Yes, right, fine, John does have the final say on this one. But only because I allow it.”

“Yes, of course,” Lestrade said, biting back a laugh. “And?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh. “We’ve narrowed it down to Calvin, Michael, and Alexander. John’s partial to the first one.”

Lestrade couldn’t help it - he laughed. Sherlock looked highly offended.

“Those are very common names, Lestrade! What fault could you possibly find with them?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Lestrade assured him quickly. “It’s just - I  never pictured you a father, and here we are discussing baby names. Never pictured you a husband though either, though, and you’ve done all right with that so far.”

“Just ‘all right,’ Inspector?” Sherlock wheezed through a sudden bolt of pain. Lestrade winced sympathetically, though it only served to highlight his point.

“I’m reserving judgement,” he said around a smile. “If you can go a month without getting yourself nearly killed and driving John out of his mind with worry, then we’ll revisit the subject.”

“Speaking of that, there is a matter I wished to discuss with you,” Sherlock said. He jammed his elbows into the mattress and hauled himself into a sitting position. Lestrade grabbed a pillow and stuffed it behind his back, and when Sherlock was settled he tossed a cautious glance at him. “The baby - he’ll need - well, that is to say, the life I lead is - reckless, at times. That John and I lead.”

“And I hope, for the child, it’ll be less so in a few months,” Lestrade scolded gently.

“Well, yes, obviously, we’ll do our best to make sure of that,” Sherlock said impatiently. “But the fact remains that I can’t simply end my work, and I _do_ have enemies - likely I always will. And - should anything ever happen, I would...appreciate it if you would try to fill in for me. Looking after the baby and - and John. And should anything happen to the _both_ of us...” Sherlock swallowed. “I can think of no one else I’d rather have to care for my child.”

It took a moment for the words to register with Lestrade.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “Sh - are you - are you asking me to be godfather?”

“That term is wholly inadequate for what you would be to the child,” Sherlock said distastefully. “But - yes, if you like. You _would be_ his legal guardian. And before you ask, yes, John agrees with me.”

“I’m not sure I know what to say,” Lestrade admitted.

“ _Yes_ would be preferable,” Sherlock informed him. “Though I will accept _maybe_ , and if you say _no_ I’m to send you to John because, according to him, I’m rubbish at asking for stuff like this and likely I “mucked it up,” so he’ll set you right.”

“Why?”  
                 
Sherlock frowned in annoyance. “Weren’t you listening? It’s because John seems to think I am rubbish -”  
                 
“No, not that. I mean -” Lestrade swallowed, and then asked quietly, “Why d’you want me?”  
                 
The look Sherlock fixed him with was an old one, the kind of look he earned at crime scenes for being, in the detective’s eyes, abnormally thick.  
                 
“Do you really not know?” he asked.  
                 
“I promise, Sherlock, I haven’t the faintest,” Lestrade insisted. “My job is no more safe than yours, I’m a good deal older than the two of you, I haven’t had a young child at home in _years_...I’m the worst candidate I could possibly think of. That doesn’t mean I’m not flattered - in fact, I’m beyond pleased that you would consider me. But - well, are you _sure_?”  
                 
Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, face unreadable.  
                 
“I can be here for him now because you were there for me first,” he said finally. “I haven’t forgotten that.”

Lestrade swallowed; his throat felt suddenly very small.

“Will you do it?” Sherlock pressed, but his voice was low; understanding.  
                 
He hadn’t really needed any convincing, and his answer was instantaneous.  
                 
“Yes,” Lestrade said firmly, his voice coming out stronger than he had expected. “Yes, of course, I would - I’d love that. Yes.”

“Good,” Sherlock said briskly, “because there is something else.”

He met Lestrade’s gaze for a moment and looked almost - apprehensive.

“A child needs to - should have - I would like him to have a middle name,” Sherlock got out finally. “I am unsure what, if any, social niceties I may be overlooking here. I have no precedent to follow, and John - while he likes the name, I haven’t yet informed him as to why I prefer it, as I wanted - well -”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted, “just say it.”

“I would like it to be ‘Jack,’” Sherlock said quickly. Lestrade felt as though all the air had been sucked from his chest.

“What?” he breathed. “You want...to use ‘Jack’?”

“Yes, if you’re willing.”

Lestrade found that he couldn’t answer, and Sherlock’s face darkened almost at once. He looked concerned, or as close to concerned as it was possible for Sherlock to achieve, and folded his arms across his chest -- a defensive move.

“Have I overstepped a social boundary again?” he asked. “That wasn’t my intention, and I -”

“No, no,” Lestrade said in a rush. “I just - I’m stunned, really, Sherlock. That wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Is it unwelcome?”

Lestrade dropped his gaze to the floor and rubbed his thumb across his sternum distractedly. It was unexpected, to be sure, and brought up a whole host of memories he’d rather sooner forget - along with ones he wished were still as crystal clear as the day he experienced them. It pleased him to hear that Sherlock still thought of the boy; it pained him that he had gone so long without having heard the name spoken aloud, and that to hear it now rendered him incapable of speech.

Perhaps he could do with the reminder that he was not the only one who had lost Jack.

“Calvin Jack,” Lestrade mused at last, running a hand through his hair. “Not a bad sounding name, that one.”

“Yes, I thought so,” Sherlock said, and his face finally cracked into a relieved smile. “My thoughts, exactly.”

\----

Sherlock fell into a fitful doze around the time that Lestrade heard the water in the shower shut off and John start shuffling around in the room upstairs. He stayed with the detective for a few more moments, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, thinking.

 _Godfather_.

 _Jack._

God, it was all too much, honestly. And while he could hardly deny them the name - it wasn’t as though he had any right to it - he couldn’t help feeling a bit of trepidation. How would he handle it? Would he see their son every time he looked at the boy - or would he see his own? He had met the mother once, and recalled only the raven-colored hair she kept swept off her face, secured in a pony tail. What would he do if her son inherited that dark mop of hair? What would he do if he had to look into warm blue eyes every time he saw the child, or what if the boy had that same smile -  
                 
Lestrade forcibly broke himself from the quiet musings as a clatter sounded in the kitchen. It was a welcome distraction, and after squeezing the sleeping Sherlock’s shoulder he went to see what John had gotten up to.  
                 
“Everything all right?” he asked as he entered the kitchen. John gave a sheepish smile.  
                 
“Yeah, sorry. I hope I didn’t disturb you two.” He set about putting on the kettle for some tea. “Is he sleeping?”  
                 
“Yeah, dropped off a few minutes ago. I think he’ll be out the rest of the night - didn’t so much as twitch when you dropped the kettle. Anything I can help with?”  
                 
John told him no, it was fine, and then offered him some food.  
                 
“We’ve got some leftovers. Takeaway, mostly, but it’s only from the last two nights and you haven’t eaten in hours, have you?”  
                 
“Neither have you,” Lestrade pointed out, and John chuckled.  
                 
“Yeah, all right, point taken,” he said, and started reheating the food while they waited for the tea. They ate in a companionable silence, both of them too ravenous for speech though they hadn’t realized it until their meals were in front of them. Then the kettle sounded and John leaped to his feet and Lestrade was suddenly left with only his thoughts, now that the temporary distraction of food had been used up.  
                 
“You’re very quiet,” John said a moment later, pressing a mug into his hands. Lestrade accepted it gratefully, because at least it gave him something to do with them.  
                 
“Sherlock told me that you two would like me to be godfather to the baby,” Lestrade said at last, still feeling slightly stunned as the word graced his lips. John gave a hesitant smile.  
                 
“And -?”  
                 
“I’ll do it; of course I will,” Lestrade said hastily. “It’s just - a bit unexpected.”  
                 
John took a thoughtful drink from his mug. “He was adamant about this one from the very first - not that I needed persuading, of course - but, well, he’s Sherlock. It must be quite the history you two have, for him to want this so badly.”  
                 
“He hasn’t told you about any of it?” Lestrade asked, surprised.  
                 
“I know a bit,” John conceded. “A lot of it is guesswork, trying to read between the lines of what he says and what he doesn’t. I know you helped him at a time in his life when he was spiraling out of control.”

And wasn’t _that_ an understatement, Lestrade thought, and by far the kindest way of defining Sherlock’s life a decade ago. He’d been a brilliant disaster of a man when they met, all angles and harsh lines, with a cruel tongue and half-dead with all the drugs he had been doing. He’d been so desperate to escape the tedium - frantic enough, in fact, that oblivion was a welcome alternative. Lestrade couldn’t imagine what it was like to live with Sherlock’s mind, and didn’t envy him in the slightest. In the days before John, he’d simply ached for the man. In the years since, Sherlock has found some sort of peace; struck a tenuous balance. Lestrade would forever be grateful for it.  
                 
“That’s true enough. There's a bit more to it than that, and I don't want to say much more without Sherlock's approval. But if nothing else,” Lestrade said finally, digging out his wallet and flipping it open, “I want you to at least know where your son’s name comes from.”  
                 
He handed it to John and waited for a few moments, watching as the doctor’s gaze flicked over the well-worn photograph and then back to Lestrade. Realization took root behind his eyes.  
                 
“You have a child,” he said, looking back down at the photograph. A small smile lit his features. “I never knew.”  
                 
Lestrade felt his own face tighten, and when John looked up at him his fell as well. He probably guessed the words before Lestrade had a chance to say them.  
                 
“Had a child,” he said. “He passed a few years before Sherlock met you.”  
                 
“Oh, Christ, Greg, I’m sorry -”  
                 
Lestrade held up a hand, silencing him. “You couldn’t have known. It’s not something I talk about. His name was Jack, and he got sick not long after I met Sherlock. He fought, and hard, but - well, anyway, that was about two years before you came along.”  
                 
“How old?” John whispered. Lestrade felt a dull ache begin to spread through his chest. It hurt to be reminded of the fact that the number of years that had passed since then were greater than the number of years he had been alive.  
                 
“Five,” he said quietly. “It was brutal, at the end, and Sherlock took it hard, ‘f you can believe that.”  
                 
John was watching him, silent, waiting for him to continue. Lestrade took a careful swallow from his mug, gathering his thoughts.

“They got along like a house on fire, first time they met. Jack was - oh, two, I suppose. Took to him instantly, Lord knows why. I think Sherlock was baffled for all of five seconds, and then -” he shrugged, “ - I dunno. I thought it was because he liked the attention - Jack worshipped him from the first - but then I started to think about it, and I realized that here was someone who _adored_ him; loved him wholly and completely for no other reason than the fact that he was he. I don’t know if Sherlock had ever had that before, and he was _good_ with Jack.

“I had to put my foot down on that one, though. Told Sherlock he was to stay away from the flat - he had a bad habit of picking my locks - until he’d gotten himself under control.” Lestrade hesitated. “Look, John, I don’t know how much you know about those years -”

“Sherlock’s told me about the drugs,” John said. “And the living rough. He slept on your couch for a while, yeah?”

“That was later,” Lestrade said, nodding. “I wasn’t about to have him around my child with all the drugs he was doing. Showed up at crime scenes high as a kite more than once. Anyway, I told him if he wanted to come ‘round again, he’d have to be off of ‘em. I fully expected never to see him again.”

Lestrade shrugged. “He surprised me. Tried to clean up his act, much as he was able, and then I stepped in to help out when it got rough.”

He took another swallow of his drink. “I know that everyone assumes that I rescued Sherlock from himself all those years ago. And I suppose they’re partly right - I did get him help at a crucial moment in his life. But the truth is, in the end, Jack is the one who saved Sherlock.”

 _And then Sherlock saved me._

John's face was equal parts pain and pity and Lestrade glanced away, staring out into the living room, remembering a time too long ago when he would walk into his own and see Sherlock stretched out on his stomach, peering intently into Jack’s face while he played with his blocks, trying to get the child to pay attention to what he was saying.

 _“Helium,” Sherlock said, “neon, argon - Jack, listen, this is very important. I’m trying to tell you about the noble gases.”_

 _“Nob!” Jack repeated triumphantly, flinging a block in the air._

 _“No,_ noble _, Jack. Noble.”_

 _“Nob!”_

“He lied to him, John,” Lestrade said softly. “He’s the most rational man I know, and yet - and yet he held my son as he was dying and told him it was going to be all right. He knew as well as I did that it probably wouldn’t be, and he lied anyway. And when it happened...Jack wasn't afraid, and I’ve Sherlock to thank for that.”

“I did wonder why Sherlock was so stuck on that one name,” John said softly. “But I don’t want to take it from you, Greg. If I’d known -”

“No,” Lestrade said abruptly, stopping him. “No, John, please. I’d be honored if you used it. I think - Sherlock needs it. Hell, I think _I_ need it. I don’t have a lot from those five years. I could do with a daily reminder.”

The clock on the mantel struck midnight; Lestrade hadn’t realized it had gotten so late.

“I should be going,” he said, getting up and rinsing his mug out in the sink, grateful to have something else to focus on other than the past. The work - it always came back to that. “Tell Sherlock I’ll call him tomorrow about the case, so he doesn’t have to come down to the Yard.”

“I will,” John said, following him to the door. “And - thank you, Greg. For - well, for everything.”

Lestrade nodded, not trusting his voice, and swept out into the stinging air of the cool night.  
 


End file.
